


thunder that does not roar, lightning that does not strike

by GenericUsername01



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Metaphysical Sex, Minor Character Death, Other, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Seraph Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), War in Heaven (Good Omens), angel lore, angels have flocks, aziraphale has siblings, bodyguard aziraphale, crowley is god's mad scientist and the angel of blowing shit up, crowley was remiel here, crowley's genitalia left intentionally vague, haloes are wedding rings, the archangels are siblings, the mortifying ordeal of being crowley, this is very sappy and cheesy, you will read this fic and you will learn about angelology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: Remiel stalked around menacingly, because she was a very powerful and intimidating seraph and absolutely could not be snapped in half by this brand new cherub.“So,” she said. “Like God said, I’m Remiel. I make stars, and I am of the Holy Seven. Don’t really see why I need a bodyguard. There’s no danger or anything, and I can take care of myself.”Aziraphale’s human face frowned, and his ox head tossed and snorted, his tail lashing with fire. “I see.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 86





	thunder that does not roar, lightning that does not strike

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this is accurate to Christian angelology, some parts are made up, some are mildly tweaked to be slightly cooler. Also I pretty much NEVER write sex, and stuff here is super vague in parts, but please don't judge it too harshly
> 
> One of Satan's lines is a modified Stephen Fry quote! Should be obvious which one
> 
> edit: WARNING this fic depicts an authoritarian theocracy and the typical effects it has on people, and contains some cult jargon and scripture quotes in places. Basically it's a very close cult metaphor, except without the human rules about gender and sexuality. Also please mind the tags re: war in heaven and minor character death, though literally all of that is offscreen and this fic shows absolutely no violence

Remiel watched as the new angel took shape. There weren’t many created yet. God had made Her seraphim, and then a bunch of virtues, then the malakhim, then dominions, and now was creating creatures called cherubim.

There were to be twenty-eight cherubim, in total. Each seraph would have four under their domain. But, God had specified, one cherub was to be set aside for the sole task of guarding and protecting their governing seraph.

Remiel thought that was a bit stupid. It wasn’t like she _needed_ a bodyguard. She was a bloody seraph, for crying out loud. God had already disclosed how rankings and relative power was to work, and while yes, admittedly, she wasn’t designed to be a fighter, she was still objectively more powerful than any other angel. Well, aside from her siblings. But she was hardly in any danger from them. Or anyone else, for that matter.

It just seemed so unnecessary.

But God had summoned her to this place to watch her personal cherub be created, and so she had come. And now, watching the process, she supposed she could see the point. The cherub’s form was that of a wild beast, stronger than any Earth would ever see. God spun parts and wove muscle and sinew together, light circling around with dizzying speed.

Remiel saw bones made of diamond and glowing gold ichor, the pure essence of life itself. The creature was massively large, with the body of a lion but in the size of something bigger. It had the hooves of an ox but made of gleaming polished brass and four wings in two sets—one set to cover its body, and another with which to fly. God gave it four heads, all facing different directions—a human facing forward, an ox facing left, a lion facing right, and an eagle facing behind.

She put human arms under one set of wings, and then manifested eyes upon the creature, two on each face and a myriad upon its wings, nestled between feathers. They stayed closed for now, with the cherub not yet living and held in stasis.

God spun the thing around a few times, and then—

It caught fire.

Remiel instinctively reverted to her own true form, bristling.

The cherub opened hundreds of eyes. It was not _on_ fire, but there was clearly fire inside it. Glowing coals and lightning seemed to be visible with every movement. There was flame trapped in there.

Remiel was struck with the idea that she had greatly misjudged things. Here was a creature that was practically a solid brick wall of muscle laid over diamond bones and powered by fire, with a thousand eyes watching everything in every direction but mostly her, and it was the size of an entire room.

A sword manifest before it, and the cherub reached out with a human arm and took it. It caught fire instantly. In a more typical, physical manner than the cherub was on fire.

That just seemed like overkill, really.

MY CREATION, God boomed. YOU ARE AN ANGEL I HAVE CREATED YOU, A CHERUB OF THE LORD MOST HIGH WHO IS ALMIGHTY. YOU ARE TO BE CALLED AZIRAPHALE AND YOU ARE TO PROTECT AND GUARD. I HAVE GIVEN YOU A FLAMING SWORD TO CARRY OUT THIS DUTY. BEFORE YOU IS THAT WHO IS CALLED REMIEL, SERAPH OF THE MOST HIGH. THEY ARE YOUR SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT. SERVE ME, AND KEEP THEM SAFE.

REMIEL, THIS IS THE CHERUB AZIRAPHALE WHOM I HAVE CREATED FOR YOU. TREAT THEM KINDLY AND ALLOW THEM TO CARRY OUT THEIR DUTIES. THEY ARE YOUR PROTECTOR, FOR AS LONG AS YOU BOTH SHALL SERVE ME.

I MUST HAVE BOTH OF YOUR WORDS THAT YOU WILL ADHERE TO THIS INSTRUCTION. SWEAR IT BEFORE ME, YOUR GOD THE ALMIGHTY.

“I swear,” said Aziraphale, in a hoarse and unused voice. He cleared his throat, frowning. “I swear.”

“I swear,” Remiel repeated.

GOOD. AZIRAPHALE, REMIEL IS YOUR SERAPH. REMIEL, AZIRAPHALE IS YOUR CHERUB. BE GOOD TO EACH OTHER.

DON’T BOTHER ME.

There was a whoosh, and a sense of distinct absence.

Remiel stalked around menacingly, because she was a very powerful and intimidating seraph and absolutely could not be snapped in half by this brand new cherub.

“So,” she said. “Like God said, I’m Remiel. I make stars, and I am of the Holy Seven. Don’t really see why I need a bodyguard. There’s no danger or anything, and I can take care of myself.”

Aziraphale’s human face frowned, and his ox head tossed and snorted, his tail lashing with fire. “I see.”

Remiel’s forked tongue twitched out to taste the air. “I mean,” she said. “I’m sure we can find something for you to do. I just think you’ll be bored, is all. It won’t be very exciting to just watch me crunch numbers all day.”

“Crunch numbers?”

“Yeah, you know, do math?”

“I’m afraid not, Seraph Remiel.”

“You don’t have to call me that; I don’t need the title.” She frowned. “Um. Stars, it’s… It’s a bunch of math and science and blowing shit up, basically. It’s, uh, kinda cool, actually. Well. I think it is. Not sure that other angels would, if they weren’t created for it.”

“I would love to see,” Aziraphale said. “And judge for myself.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course, um, come with me.”

* * *

Remiel flew out into the further reaches of space, Aziraphale trailing behind her. He had vanished the sword into the ether to fly, but she still felt unsettled having him behind her.

That was stupid. She literally could not be safer. He was created to protect her, and that was the most sensible place for him to be.

She felt extremely self-conscious about the whole thing, and was oddly nervous about showing him the stars. It seemed so intimate, suddenly, bringing him to see her work and judge it, and not only that, but he would be watching her every day for the rest of time now. It felt unnerving.

She didn’t like anything about this whole ‘bodyguard’ situation. It had seemed easier to deal with when she had had lower expectations for Aziraphale, when she had assumed he would just be another lesser angel who was nowhere near a match for her power and would simply be there for the sake of it.

She had known, intellectually, that she was no soldier, that she had never been created to fight. She had also known that different choirs of angels would have different specialties. But it hadn’t truly registered just how stark those differences would be.

Remiel was one of the Holy Seven, the Archangels above all angels, the seraphim. Basically the holy flaming dragons of God. The only seven creatures in all of existence who would ever be capable of standing before Her throne and truly perceiving Her without their minds melting and their souls instantly disintegrating into permanent death. She was made for more academic things. She would See God, and praise and sing, and she would help design the universe and be the vessel through which God relayed Her vision.

Remiel was made to compose poems and songs and write the laws of physics and draw up the blueprints of the stars, engineer atoms into different elements and instruct others in their use. She was a burning snake made of hope and lightning. She basically hissed out ideas and thoughts all day.

Aziraphale was something a bit more solid.

His magic may not be quite as great as hers, but he was literally the next choir down, the second most powerful rank of angel. The difference would be marginal, most likely. And parlor tricks and quick thinking would only get you so far. Especially against someone who was presumably created with all the knowledge and training a warrior could ever ask for.

Remiel was… intimidated.

She was being stupid. She pushed those thoughts away pointedly.

“Anyway,” she said. “These are some stars. I didn’t build them, or design all of them. But they exist.”

She turned away to look out around herself, and subtly adjusted the wings that framed her face.

“They’re beautiful,” Aziraphale said, sounding awed, and Remiel snapped around to look at him.

He looked… smaller, and gentler, haloed by the light of the stars. He was smiling softly, and the light caught in every one of his eyes. Four heads turned as much as they could towards Remiel, and he didn’t look threatening, actually.

“Would you tell me which are yours?” Aziraphale asked. “If you’d like to, that is.”

“Sure,” Remiel said, and then promptly realized she did not have hands to point with. She hesitated, and then shifted into her humanoid form. A few dozen of Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and Remiel pointedly ignored that.

“That one. That one. That whole big clump over there. Most of the Andromeda Galaxy. Um, I was actually, I was the one who came up with the spiral design. I’ve got a bunch of nebulae in the works, but you can’t really see them from here. A lot of this stuff is… main sequence, it’s nothing special, but I’ve done a handful of black holes and hypergiants. Some dark matter.”

Aziraphale’s attention was locked on her, magnetic. “Show me?”

She nodded.

* * *

She had been rambling on about thermodynamics for a solid ten minutes at this point but Aziraphale was still watching and listening with rapt attention, as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever heard.

It probably was, she realized.

He needed to meet some other angels.

“Anyway, you’re probably sick of hearing about this by now,” she said, and Aziraphale’s expression flickered into something strange and new. “Why don’t I take you back to Heaven, show you around? You should meet the other cherubim. They’re your flock. I don’t know if it holds true for all the other choirs, but the archangels—the seraphim—we’re all siblings. You should meet the other cherubim.”

And now she was repeating herself.

Without another word, she turned straight around and took off.

* * *

Remiel flew into Heaven at lightning speed and headed to the thirty-fifth level, the cherubim residences. She quite literally _burst_ into the common area.

Aziraphale was not there.

The other cherubim were just as huge and full of eyes and fire as he was, but she didn’t know these ones.

For an interminable stretch, she thought time was frozen.

Then Aziraphale rushed in, all eyes swiveling furiously until he found her, and then he decided to stare at everything else in the room too.

“So this is Aziraphale,” Remiel said loudly. “He’s a new cherub, which I suppose, well, all of you are. Anyway, show him around, make him feel at home.”

She teleported out.

A random cherub looked pitying.

Aziraphale felt his human face burn.

* * *

Every morning, the seraphim had a brief meeting, to go over the known information, the current state of creation, and discuss any problems and plans for the day.

Remiel was the only one to show up without his cherubic bodyguard in tow.

“Remiel,” Gabriel said. He rubbed both hands down his face. “Where is your fucking bodyguard?”

“Um,” he said, intelligently.

Everyone sure was looking at him. And then nobody said anything, nobody just filled that silence for him.

“So you see,” he started, and still no one interrupted. “I, uh. I left him on the cherub floor?”

“Why,” Uriel asked flatly.

“Uh.”

“You have to finish your sentences,” Raguel said, because he is a dick.

“I am a dick,” Remiel said.

“Go get your cherub,” Uriel said.

“I’ll be speaking to both of you when you get back,” Michael said.

* * *

Michael’s lecture went on for half an hour.

Every word rammed home the realization that Remiel was evil scum, and stupid, and mean.

Once his older sister left, Remiel immediately turned and apologized to Aziraphale.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he said. “I was… When I first met you, I was… intimidated, and I treated you unfairly because of that. I’m sorry. I thought I was being kind, letting you meet different angels you might have more in common with, but in reality I was just interfering with your ability to do your duties, which is exactly what I swore I wouldn’t do. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said, softly, gently, seeming as sincere as anything. He had assumed a humanoid form today, and more than anything he looked _cuddly._ Remiel’s heart wrenched. “You are as new to this as I am. We’ll figure it out together.”

Remiel was truly the worst.

“I’m—” He swallowed. “So you have a new form.”

“Yes, the other cherubim recommended it. They thought you might find it less disturbing.”

“You aren’t disturbing, Aziraphale,” he said. “Not in any form. Not at all. You’re—You look safe. Even when you’re a giant winged lion. You always… You seem like safety, and I was just an idiot, caught up in my own stuff. Don’t pay attention to me.”

“I’m afraid that’s my job, my dear, I can’t help it,” he said, and Remiel’s heart suffered some sort of human malfunction.

“Well then,” he said, smiling. He felt his face heat up; what was wrong with this form today? “I have some absolutely thrilling administrative stuff I need to get done, I don’t suppose you’d like to join me in my office?”

Aziraphale beamed. “It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

“Can I ask you something?” Aziraphale asked.

“Of course,” Remiel said, pushing the celestial scroll away. Twenty minutes of paperwork was more than enough for a day; this was an excellent stopping point.

“Those marks on your skin,” he said. “What are they?”

“Ah.” Remiel pushed up one of the baggy sleeves of his robe, exposing even more marks. “My lightning. I’m surprised you noticed it, actually, it’s pretty faint most of the time. I’m the angel of thunder and hope, you see. Comes in handy with the starmaking. I’m usually the one who ignites them.”

“You create lightning?”

“More like I _am_ lightning, and I can direct it outward if I want. The marks light up and move then. They glow.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Are all angels a part of their own patronage? Or are you and I exceptions?”

“I think everyone is, in some way,” he said. “What’s your patronage, by the way? I never asked.”

“Oh, I am the angel of all queer people and Eden,” he said. “And you.”

“What’s Eden?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll protect them one day.”

* * *

Remiel has maintained throughout existence (all two days of it that had happened before Aziraphale was made) that it impossible to get anything creative done in an office, or even think with true clarity. They’re fine for menial paperwork, a good place with no distractions, but not somewhere he would go to truly _think._

And so his workspace is whatever patch of space he happens to be designing that day, and all his work is done in distilled light written onto miracled glass boards.

Aziraphale, blessedly, just stands in the background and lets him work. Which is great, because Remiel is supposed to wholesale invent a new element today.

Hours pass, and Remiel slips into that wonderful zone of focus where everything makes perfect sense and the numbers are the only thing in all of existence and the puzzle is a delight to work through. He doesn’t notice a single other thing happening until he is completely finished.

He steps back, and inspects the boards. It all checks out, even stands up to a third check-through. With a nod, it is all written down on precisely thirty scrolls, and they are sent off in different directions—one to every single virtue, one to records, and one to Uriel, the only other seraph involved in celestial architecture.

He turns to see Aziraphale focused on him with quiet admiration. Remiel flies forward haltingly, and Aziraphale comes and meets him halfway.

“It’s, um, it’s—” Remiel waved a hand vaguely. “I came up with an element called boron. It’s… not found in stars. You probably don’t care.”

“No, I’d love to hear about it,” Aziraphale said. “Tell me.”

“Alright,” he swallowed. “So it’s different from the other ones so far. This one cannot be created in a star; it can only be made through spallation, which is where high-speed cosmic rays shoot into a heavier element and blow it up. Boron is the result. I think it could be pretty useful in plants…”

* * *

They were having a ball, ostensibly to celebrate that God had finished creating all the angels. In reality, it was because balls are fun and angels had already managed to swerve fully into a dramatic Victorian aesthetic.

“You’re going in your true form?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh definitely,” Remiel said. “At least until the dancing starts. The human forms are _boring._ ”

“I think yours is quite lovely.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“…I meant that.”

He turned to look at him. Aziraphale looked almost painfully earnest, and faintly hurt. “Oh,” Remiel said. “I’m sorry. You’re—You’re very beautiful as well.”

He blushed a bit, and Remiel’s flames rose a bit higher. “Thank you.”

He considered briefly switching forms to match Aziraphale, but no. It wasn’t _just_ about the drama. A seraph’s true form is terrifying. He is a massively large snake, with two clawed feet. Covering the feet are a small pair of wings, dark as the chaos that existed before he ignited the stars. A matching small set covers his face (the only angel class permitted to hide their faces from God), and a third set is on his back for flying, huge, with a wingspan to rival the length of him. He is on fire, constantly, with scales a gleaming crimson. His underbelly is gold, his claws are dipped with gold, his eyes are gold, even his venom-dripping fangs are gold.

He is draconic, nightmarish. And he wants to be seen like that while absolutely glued to Aziraphale’s side.

It could be seen as posturing, but in Remiel’s defense, he is dead certain that every other seraph is going to do the same thing, just for different reasons. Gabriel practically invented posturing. Michael can’t go ten seconds without reminding everyone that she could kill them. Samael and Uriel are in love with the looks of their forms (dark black and purples and blues as compared to pure shining gold, respectively), and Raphael and Raguel will likely flaunt their forms as a reminder of their status.

Remiel resisted the urge to wrap around Aziraphale on the way down. As much as he may want to touch his softness, and as durable as Aziraphale may be, Remiel was literally on fire here, and it was debatable whether angels could burn.

He did end up flaring and circling a bit once they entered the ballroom.

Most everyone there was in their true forms—of the upper choirs, anyway. Lower choir trueforms were pretty much just a bunch of monstrous, vaguely humanoid things with strange and excessive body parts. A number of those angels had chosen the simplicity of a human form for aesthetic’s sake.

Thrones floated by on clouds, seated on the literal thrones they used to move about and seeming impossibly regal in their perceived old age, though a few had chosen to wear a younger human-looking form. The angels with their wings out all had them groomed to shining, most displaying elegant or colorful plumage to boot. There was an archangel with speckles in perfect, neat arrangement, like a loon’s.

Powers were all in their war dress and polished gold armor, showing more skin than anyone else and hulking muscles underneath. Cherubim and seraphim were all playing politics by looking imposing and inhuman—the cherubim the largest things in the room, and the seraphim all the most colorful. Gabriel alone could probably claim that title for the entire choir actually, all lavender shaded with soft blues and pinks.

The only people not going out of their way to show off were the dominions. God and everyone else knew they didn’t need to.

Remiel had been distracted earlier, but now he was fully able to notice and appreciate that Aziraphale’s coloring was unique to him. In his trueform, all his hair and feathers and fur were white, and his eyes were every color they could be, constantly changing even from one hour to the next. None of the other cherubim held a candle to him. He was truly striking.

Remiel preened, and at least had the decency to notice that he was mostly coiled around Aziraphale, and kind of trapping him, a bit.

“Sorry,” he said, wiggling around and flicking his tail in the opposite direction.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said faintly, looking out at the crowd.

“Remiel!” Gabriel boomed, somehow managing to stomp over on short dragon feet with claws that looked like blown glass. Remiel internally groaned.

“So this is the cherub you ditched,” he said, because Gabriel has one brain cell and he uses it to be an asshole. His own cherub cringed at his side. Gabriel’s eyes flicked over Aziraphale in a cool assessment, and as he paled, Remiel burned even hotter. “Aren’t these things supposed to look scary?”

“I-I don’t want to look scary,” Aziraphale said. “I want to look nice. Kind.”

Gabriel barked a laugh, a puff of flame coming out of his mouth. “The whole point of you is to ward off threats, Cherub! If you can’t intimidate them away before they strike, then you’ll constantly be fighting them off. Remiel will never be safe.” About half a second after he finished speaking, Gabriel seemed to hear his own words, and turned to Remiel. “Oh, hey. Is that _why_ you ditched him earlier? Do you want a replacement? This one seems faulty.”

“Azssiraphale isss perfect,” he hissed.

“Oh hey.” Gabriel leaned closer, bringing his repulsive snake head near to Remiel’s repulsive snake head. His voice was low. “Your lightning’s going. You should step out and calm down. We’ll talk more later.”

He and his poor cherub retreated, and Remiel stood stock still and seethed.

“Remiel?” Aziraphale asked.

He whipped around and stormed out of the ballroom, lightning flashing around his skin even as his fire blazed.

“Remiel!”

He went onto a balcony off the hall and switched to his human form before he got eaten up by his own fire. New human hands gripped the railing like a lifeline. Electricity danced across his skin, jumping off it in jagged streaks.

“Remiel?”

He took a deep breath and turned around. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Fuck, I am so sorry, Aziraphale, I shouldn’t have just left you behind like that. I just got so mad, and I know I shouldn’t, Gabriel is my brother, but I couldn’t stand the things he was saying. Not a single one of them is true. You know that, right?”

“I am…” he started, and paused to gather his thoughts. “I seem to be different from the other cherubim.”

“I don’t _want_ another cherub. I want you. You’re perfect, and I love you.”

“Dear, you hardly know me. And I don’t have the same desires as the others. I don’t want to carry around my sword constantly and shake the ground as I walk. I want to seem welcoming and safe. I want to be a sanctuary. I want to be soft.”

“You are,” Remiel croaked, overcome. “Can I—Can I touch you?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale opened his arms, and Remiel poured himself into them, draping his arms over his shoulders and burrowing into his neck.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “You’re beautiful and amazing and _soft,_ and I love that about you. It’s not a fault. It’s revolutionary.”

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his hair. “Can I ask what happened with the lightning?”

“Oh,” Remiel pulled back. Stars, what was he doing, throwing a fit and demanding Aziraphale’s comfort when _he_ was the one who had been insulted? He was truly the worst. Gabriel had it backward— _Aziraphale_ deserves better. “Uh, when I get… overemotional, I guess, just feeling stuff too strongly, my lightning tends to act up. That’s all. I’m not sick or anything, just dramatic.”

“Ah,” he said. His face lit up with sudden glee. “One could say you’re a hothead.”

Remiel considered committing blasphemy for the sake of the swear words.

Instead, he groaned loudly into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Oh, you’re killing me, angel.”

“Always a pleasure.”

“I suppose you want to go back to the ball now?”

He pressed another kiss to his forehead. “We don’t have to. There’ll be other balls,” he said. “Though I do expect to be taken to one at the earliest opportunity. I’m quite eager to show off my brilliant seraph.”

Remiel balked and sputtered, but Aziraphale just gave a little smile and kissed his lips, and oh, that was even nicer. They stayed caught in the kiss for long minutes, movements languid and gentle. Remiel felt like his heart was about to burst. Aziraphale was warm, and solid, and they molded together like two puzzle pieces.

“Well, Remiel,” he said. “Where to?”

“I—” he said. “Okay so this is kind of embarrassing.”

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly.

“I sleep?”

He smiled and took his hand in his own. “My dear, that’s not embarrassing,” he said. “However you choose to care for yourself is a celebration. You deserve even the most indulgent of luxuries. In fact, I insist on it. There is just no sense in denying yourself good things.”

Aziraphale led him by hand back to the seraphim residences. Remiel felt like he was floating even more than he had while actually flying through space.

* * *

Angels have no physical needs. They do not need to sleep, or eat, or breathe. Their forms, even when humanoid, are not true human bodies, but merely an alternate expression of a given angel’s soul. Having living spaces for them at all is not necessary, but rather a gesture towards privacy. It serves a mental purpose rather than a physical one.

Despite this, all of the seraph residences were ridiculously spacious and opulent.

Remiel’s quarters were almost entirely white and bare, sleek minimalism. There was a gigantic parlor room with plush, all-white furniture from the 2300s (AD). It had a fluffy rug, a glass coffee table, and not much else.

There was his office, which he ignored, a small spa that called itself a bathroom, a food production unit, a closet big enough to be lived in itself, an inexplicable guest room, and finally a bedroom. The bedroom was also ridiculously large, in keeping with the theme.

It contained the world’s softest, biggest bed with a king’s ransom of blankets and pillows. The bed itself was a four-poster with white suede curtains, and the room had more fluffy heated carpeting.

“Oh. So you weren’t kidding about liking _soft,_ then.” Aziraphale grinned.

“Shut up! How dare you.” Remiel snapped and his soft white robes turned into slightly different soft white robes—looser and lighter ones, without any wrapping or layers. He climbed into the bed and immediately set about arranging everything around him to the perfect degree of floof.

“Goodnight, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and pulled the curtains closed.

“Wait!” Remiel said. “What are you going to do?”

“…Guard you?”

“Just stand there, all night? That sounds so dull.”

He shrugged. “I’ll manage. I was created for it. It can’t be too bad.”

A bubble of injustice welled up in him. “You deserve so much better than ‘not too bad,’” he said. “What do you _want_ to do?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I… want to keep you safe.”

“Angel, if someone manages to storm into this room with ill intent, then they’ve already moved past every other seraph’s living quarters and every other level below this one. In that scenario, Heaven has fallen and there’s nothing you can do anymore.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “I could save you.”

“There are no threats!” he said. “There is literally nothing dangerous in existence in the entire universe! Just take the night off and chill out. Have a rest.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I suppose,” he said, climbing into bed cautiously. “I’ll be extending my consciousness, however. I won’t let anything catch me unawares.”

Remiel rolled his eyes affectionately. “Whatever lets you sleep easy.”

Aziraphale gave him a nipping kiss for his troubles, settling into the monstrous pile of blankets. Remiel wrapped his form around him like a snake, like a dragon guarding his hoard. Aziraphale smiled through another kiss, and Remiel surged up to return the favor, with interest.

They kissed until Remiel fell asleep, and Aziraphale thought life was pretty nice.

* * *

They were in a meeting.

Remiel was doing everything but paying attention. That was already normal for him, though.

He had been talking with Aziraphale more these past few days, and he had some Thoughts and reached some Conclusions. He was real good at that, an idea man, he was. What he had been created to be. All the seraphim were, technically, though lately he had been doubting whether angel class had more of an impact than their individual purposes did. Take Michael, for example. One of the ruling seven seraphim. And yet a warrior nonetheless. Because what she was meant to rule was God’s Army. She was a general, and her genius and ideas were all focused towards military strategy.

Unlike Remiel, who was God’s mad scientist and the angel in charge of designing very precise and elaborate bombs throughout the universe.

But they all had their specialties. Raphael and Samael were working together on biological design—what keeps things alive, what causes their deaths. Gabriel was essentially an administrator, doing all the boring and tedious things no one else had time or patience for, and he was working heavily with Raguel, the judge, to create a just system for how Heaven works, for keeping the angels safe and in check. Uriel of course was the other cosmic architect—the artist, more focused on aesthetics than physics. And then there was whatever the fuck Michael was doing that involved exercise and weapons.

What was she training all the angels _for,_ Remiel wondered. Who would you use a sword against, when the only other living things in the whole universe were your fellow angels?

Remiel could never imagine turning a blade against Aziraphale or his siblings. He wasn’t close with many other angels other than them, but they were all connected somehow, weren’t they? Not all the choirs were related, mind—the seraphim all were, the cherubim were apparently in seven separate flocks of four, the seven dominions were siblings, the virtues were also in seven families of four, and the powers were in twenty-eight distinct flocks of forty angels each (Michael called them regiments). But none of the others. The thrones were all unrelated, as were the principalities, archangels, and angels.

But surely they had ties? Friendship and love amongst themselves? Loyalty to their fellows, at least? Why would an angel ever need to fight another angel? It didn’t make sense.

“Alright, and that should wrap things up. Unless anyone has any questions?” Gabriel asked.

“Oh!” Remiel said. “I want Aziraphale to be able to do things on his own?”

“Didn’t we already tell you to shut up about that?” Uriel asked.

“No, this is different, hear me out.”

“Remiel,” Aziraphale said softly, right by his ear. “Whatever this is, it isn’t necessary. I promise.”

He ignored that. “He should be able to do other pleasurable activities of his own desire so long as he stays close and alert. He’s extended his awareness before and maintained readiness the entire time. There is no reason he should be forced into constant hypervigilance, especially with the current state of affairs. If he wants to—to read a scroll, or talk to other angels, that needs to be allowable.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Why would—”

“Forcing the cherubic bodyguards to revolve their lives around a single seraph is hardly showing them the kindness we swore to God we would. This should apply to all of them.”

The cherubim in the room had been still before, but now even their internal fire seemed to hold. None of them were looking at Remiel, but every seraph was.

“What’s a reasonable distance?” Raguel asked, and Remiel smiled.

* * *

Aziraphale loved life. Every day seemed even better than the last. His siblings were lovely people. They had no duties as of yet, which meant they were always up to date on the latest gossip. Not that angels gossiped. But Aziraphale had a significantly lowered opinion of the Archangel Gabriel now, let’s just say that.

(Though Remiel always ended up hearing much more than that.)

Fiction had also recently been invented, but it wasn’t terribly interesting at this point. It had started as alternative interpretations of how the future could unfold, ones that had no legitimate stake in prophecy but were simply nice to think about. Aziraphale found it all fascinating to read, which he did voraciously.

Food had also been invented as a biological experiment. It would be necessary for mortal life, apparently. Aziraphale had tried some, as had a number of other angels. Raphael and Samael had issued formal apologies to all victims of the prototype. Food was currently being reworked.

It had its ups and downs, he supposed, but for some reason, Aziraphale was so happy lately he could hardly believe it.

“Angel! Watch this! It’s finally ready!” Remiel shouted, and Aziraphale obliging flew over with a huge grin on his face, his scroll forgotten.

Remiel was standing before what seemed to be a lot of nothing, arms outstretched in front of him. “Watch,” he repeated.

And then he became electrified. Lightning jolted off his skin fast enough only an angel could see. Streaks of fire danced around, over, _through_ his form. Remiel’s hair caught flame, his eyes glowed pure liquid gold and focus. His robes didn’t turn to ash only because they had never been ’cloth,’ per se, in the first place.

Lightning whipped off Remiel in directed streaks and flashing, sizzling beams. And then all at once, it exploded. A star ignited before them, a fireball that could swallow whole planets and not even notice, a fire so big and hot it would burn for millions and millions of years.

Aziraphale gasped. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “You did so well, darling, it’s gorgeous. You’ve truly outdone yourself with this one. And what a wonderful transformation.”

“Thanks,” he said. He seemed a bit flushed, perhaps from exertion, and his hair was still on fire. He was also still cloaked in lightning, but it wasn’t nearly so aggressive anymore.

Aziraphale reached out and touched him, Remiel’s eyes widening at the last second.

“Don’t—” he started, but Aziraphale already had. Remiel watched in wonder as the lightning brushed over Aziraphale harmlessly.

“Why would you think your nature could hurt me? I was created to go with you, wasn’t I? It’d be a bit counterintuitive.”

Remiel laughed. “I suppose it would.”

He leaned forward and sealed his words with a kiss. Aziraphale buried his other hand in hair and fire.

He was so, so happy.

* * *

Training was necessary, because it was required, because Michael said so.

Though perhaps ‘training’ wasn’t the best term. Michael, the cherubim, and the powers had all been born knowing all it was possible to know about bladed and unarmed combat. The other choirs trained, but these ones _practiced._

Aziraphale almost exclusively sparred with his own flock, though he had occasionally done so with angels of the Third Sphere, as a teaching demonstration. He typically only did that on special request from one of the powers. His siblings were much more challenging opponents. They held the same skill and power as he did, and additionally, they were familiar enough with each other to not hold back and to learn each other’s tricks.

Rikbiel always forgot to focus her eyes in all directions. Haziel was far too nervous about things near her wings (her eyes, she always corrected). Ophaniel struck with a hard offense at the start and no strategy whatsoever beyond that.

Aziraphale spent so much time in human form that he tended to forget about all his extra limbs when in cherubic form. He was klutzy. It was very easy to take advantage of.

“Watch your wing!” Rikbiel yelled, even as she brought her sword down. Aziraphale jerked out of the way at the last second. “Your wings are not your arms, Aziraphale!”

He huffed and pressed his lower wings down, back out of the way, but used the other set to lift up. The fight became three-dimensional, and he used the higher vantage point to lash out. Rikbiel nearly stabbed straight through his gut, and narrowly avoided a kick to the face with a hoof that could flatten trees.

Her sword didn’t, however.

“I concede!” she called, and Aziraphale circled into a landing. He held out his hand genially.

“Excellent match,” he said.

“You as well,” she said. “Oh! Looks like Ophaniel and Haziel are done too. Wanna go join them?”

“They’ve been done for three minutes now,” he said pleasantly, and his sister scowled at him.

They met up with their other flockmates and quickly got lost in a stream of overflowing chatter. It was quite a thing to see and hear, especially with all four of them having four heads each. Admittedly they mainly stuck to their human ones when it came to speaking, but that didn’t mean the others couldn’t be used to communicate too. The eagle heads were great for loud caws and coos. The ox heads could snort and toss their horns quite expressively. The lion heads could of course roar, and—with their main body aspects being leonine as well—they could purr.

A flock of cherubim was loud. _Aziraphale’s_ flock of cherubim were louder.

“The seraphim have started drawing up assignments for those of us who don’t have any yet,” Ophaniel said.

“Source?” Rikbiel asked.

“Gabriel told me I am on the shortlist for potential guardians of Eden.”

The flock tittered and cooed encouragement. Ophaniel visibly preened, tail flicking.

“Guardians of Eden? What would that entail?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well—” Ophaniel shook out his mane of blond fur dramatically, “—I would stand over the Gate which is in the East, and prevent malicious forces from entering, and ensure the human inhabitants remained healthy and happy. Terribly important work. The preservation of the human race would be in my hands alone.”

The flock made an appropriate show of being impressed.

“Well how come I haven’t been told of any assignments?” Rikbiel asked. “Aziraphale was born into his, you’re being tapped for a special assignment, what about me and Haziel?”

“I’m sure our orders will come in time,” Haziel said.

“It doesn’t seem very fair, though,” she said. “I was created exactly the same as either of you two; I don’t see why you are being given privileges and I am not.”

“Yours will come in time,” Haziel said. “We must be patient, Rikbiel. God gives all good things to those who wait.”

Rikbiel paused. A thousand green eyes looked all around at everything. Her bull’s head snorted angrily. “I’m going to go speak with Remiel.”

Tawny wings primed and took off like a shot.

“I do hope she doesn’t cause a fuss,” Ophaniel said.

* * *

Uriel’s studio stood to challenge the very idea of what an artist’s studio was meant to be like.

It was spotless.

It was also filled with magical heavenly light flowing in through glass windows. The space was heavily ventilated, huge and open, and just slightly too cold. Two-dimensional art hung in decadent solid-gold frames: paintings and poems and sketches. Low shelves lined the room all around and just up to the windows. Sculptures rested on top, and scrolls were cased within. Worktables were spaced evenly throughout the room, almost all of them covered with ongoing projects. Further closets off the studio were full of more unfinished projects, supplies, a darkroom, and the kiln.

A few other angels were about, working on their own things. While it was definitely Uriel’s studio, it was open to the public, and the majority of art created within it was not made by her.

Aziraphale gasped softly when he saw all the scrolls. Remiel grinned and kissed his cheek.

“Well, go on. I’ll just be over here, you know, _working,”_ she teased.

“Oh! Oh, do you want me to stay?” He twisted his hands in his robes, face contrite.

“No, angel, you do whatever you want, I’ll be fine. I was just—having a bit of a joke, I suppose.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s no trouble. I should stay focused on you anyway.”

“Angel.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “It’s fine. We’ll be in the same room. I’ll be standing right next to my sister and her bodyguard, and you’ll still be focusing on me anyway. I literally could not be safer.”

Mostly because there was nothing she needed to be safe _from,_ she thought, more than a little irritably, but she had learned to keep those thoughts to herself.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said, but he was already looking back at the scrolls. Remiel grinned and gave him one last goodbye kiss before floating over to her sister.

Uriel raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you happy today?”

“Yep!” she chirped.

“And affectionate with your bodyguard too.”

“I love him.”

“Don’t let it distract you,” she said. “However pleasant he seems to you, he’s doing a job. And you are meant to be as well.”

“Well by God, certainly wouldn’t wanna have any love or affection in there, would we?”

“You know what I mean. Your personal pleasures should come second to doing the Lord’s work.”

“They do,” she said. “I simply have personal pleasures. I realize it might be a foreign concept to you.”

“I find joy in doing God’s will.”

“And never doing anything else.”

“Cor—” Uriel started. She frowned. “Once. I painted something that could not bring glory to God.”

Remiel raised an eyebrow.

“It did not depict the splendor of creation, or the joy of Heaven, or any useful lesson or prophecy of things to come. It was just… pretty. For the sake of it. Empty colors, entirely abstract.”

“It sounds lovely,” Remiel said softly. “I’d love to see it, if you’re okay with that.”

“The difference between me and you is that I recognize it was a waste of time,” Uriel snapped. She wasn’t on fire in this form, but it seemed a near thing, looking at her eyes. “Time that could have been spent in service to God, but was instead squandered on useless things. What good is a painting for, if it can’t strengthen anyone’s faith? I took a precious gift and threw it in the trash. God gave me a lifetime. I should spend it in grateful service, not selfish, hedonistic pursuits.”

For a long moment, the two of them stared at each other.

“Y’know, for an artist, you’re very uptight,” Remiel said.

“Shut up and write the poem.”

* * *

Uriel crumpled up what had to be her fiftieth sheet of paper and slammed its wad down onto the table. Her cherub discreetly picked it up and incinerated it.

“When’s this due by?” Remiel asked, chewing on the end of her quill.

_“Tomorrow.”_

“What?! Why so little time?”

“Because Gabriel came up with the schedule and he has never done anything creative in his life. He probably thinks we could pound out an entire epic in two hours if we really put our minds to it.”

Remiel slid the memo about it across the desk. Tomorrow had mid-week worship scheduled for the evening—a full six hours of ceremony, singing, prayer, and speeches. Obviously they already had plenty of hymns written and ready to go, but Gabriel had also scheduled in ten minutes of poetry near the beginning and fifteen more minutes near the end. The only advance notice they had gotten about this had been when he passed out the finalized program for it in their morning meeting earlier, and Uriel had asked what poems would be used, prompting Gabriel to casually tell them to write something new, of an appropriate length.

One day, there will be professional human songwriters who will spend weeks working on a piece just two minutes in length.

Thankfully, Remiel and Uriel are not human. Unthankfully, they are not allowed to murder Gabriel.

“Okay, so I’ve written a stanza,” Remiel said. “Not sure where we’re going to put it in, but it takes thirty-four seconds to say, so.”

Uriel took the paper and read it silently.

Remiel cleared her throat. “Needs a bit of editing. I’ve got ideas for a second one to go with it. Very… Very easily chopped, is what I’m saying.”

“Remiel,” her sister said. “You understand that this is to be read in front of the entire Host, correct? And by yourself?”

“Yeah?”

Uriel gave her a look. She passed the paper back. “It’s well-written, of course, and the praise of creation is clear, but I think a poem of this nature is better suited to a private reading.”

“What do you mean?”

Uriel raised her eyebrows tellingly. Remiel had no clue what was going on.

“Remy, I’m going to be frank with you. This is just a love poem. You have ten lines here all about cherubim, but really they are specific to one cherub in particular, and you only reference God once, to praise Her for making him.”

Uriel’s bodyguard—a cherub named Zophiel—snorted loudly and covered their mouth.

“I’m sorry, sorry,” they said. “My sincerest apologies, seraphim.”

Remiel burst into flames in embarrassment.

“I was—the next stanzas were going to be about the other choirs,” she said lowly. As if keeping her voice down would do anything to keep Aziraphale from noticing her. As if she wasn’t very visibly on fire, with her face burning red. “You know, one stanza giving thanks to each choir. Cherubim are just the next choir down after us, and I thought it’d be self-righteous to have a stanza praising ourselves.”

“’Your beauty is incomparable, your mind and heart unparalleled.’ You’re telling me this is an objective praise of all cherubim?”

Remiel snatched the paper from her and incinerated it in her hand. The fire had spread from just her hair now, and she almost looked as bright as she did in her seraphic form.

“I’ll write something else,” she muttered. “It was a bad idea.”

* * *

Aziraphale found he didn’t particularly like sleep. It just didn’t seem as _safe_ as being awake, for one, and another, it felt like a waste of time.

He did deeply enjoy going to bed with Remiel however.

Currently, said angel was nestled up close behind him, kneading her hands down his back. It was slow going. She kept having to stop to bite or kiss him.

“Oh, it was just awful, Remiel, you would have hated it too, I know you would have. I had to spar with _Michael.”_

“Why?”

“She wanted to see if my skills were still sharp! Can you believe? As if I don’t practice those very skills every day.”

“I bet you’re the best fighter we have.” She punctuated this statement with a kiss to his shoulder.

He sighed. “I’m not, that’s Michael,” he said. “But that was just the start. _Then_ I had to go do training exercises with a bunch of powers, and frankly I don’t see why that’s my job. I don’t resent it or anything; it just seems nonsensical, putting the cherubim in charge of the powers. Or at least their training. Apparently the typical hierarchy remains for all non-military exercises.”

“Hm. That’s dumb.”

“It is, yes,” he said. “I don’t see why angels need to be fighters in the first place. Why we essentially have four choirs set aside for war. How does war fit in with God’s love? Can’t we all be non-violent? Non-threatening?”

“You are,” Remiel said, rubbing knots out of his back. “You’ve never hurt a soul in your life, and you’ll never have to, because there is no danger. I could never be afraid of you. Not ever.”

“I think maybe you should be,” Aziraphale admitted. Remiel’s hands stilled. “I could destroy you. So easily. Any cherub could, even the lousiest of the lot.”

“How dare you,” she said. “You’re my best friend, and I love you. I won’t listen to this. You are the softest, gentlest, most-kindhearted cherub we have, yes, and that does not make you lousy. That makes you the best. A guardian is not measured by the irrational fights they pick, but by the safety preserved in their trust. Violence is to be a last resort, and your hesitation towards it means you’re good at your job. I _know_ I have no reason to fear you. You would never raise a hand against me, because you’re good, down to your core.”

Remiel trusted Aziraphale in the way that came so naturally to angels: absolute faith. It hadn’t been instant, or there at the start. Truthfully, she didn’t know when it had cropped up, but it was there now. She thought there was very little he could do to ever make it go away.

Remiel had more faith in Aziraphale than she had in God.

“Kiss me again, it felt good,” Aziraphale said.

“Hmm, spoiled.” She smiled and kissed her way up Aziraphale’s neck to just under his ear. Her hands slipped around his waist to circle around and trap him against her, soft bare flesh against silken robes.

And Aziraphale had so much flesh, softness completely disguising the warrior’s muscle underneath, and really it was a shame he wore clothes so often. Remiel let her hands wander, luxuriating.

God had truly blessed her, hadn’t She?

Her angel’s breath changed beneath her hands. Remiel splayed her fingers out in fluffy white chest hair. She reached down, tracing and exploring curves down to Aziraphale’s thighs, as far as she could reach.

Aziraphale turned in her grasp and frowned. “Now, this is hardly fair,” he said. “Why are _you_ still wearing robes when I am not?”

“Because you were the one getting a back massage,” she said wryly.

“Yes, well now I want to touch you as well, so off with this.”

“So bossy,” Remiel chided, pulling her robes up over her head. “You’re getting downright insubordinate, angel.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and caught her lips in a kiss. Remiel made a happy surprised sound, and cupped a hand to his cheek. Aziraphale’s hands were on her, as greedy as her own had been on him, but it seemed much more interesting now. She wriggled closer into his lap and bit his neck impulsively, making Aziraphale gasp.

“Is there some reason you’re so taken with biting me, dear?” he asked, voice strangled.

Remiel pulled back. “Do you not like it?”

 _“No,_ I like it, I like it quite a bit, I was just wondering.”

“Ah.” She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. I like touching you. I like kissing you, and biting is a lot like kissing, I suppose. It’s… nice. It makes me feel close to you.”

The words didn’t feel quite right, or enough, and she frowned. Aziraphale pulled her closer and kissed her properly, on the mouth. Remiel melted into it.

Their kissing picked up pace again, hands roaming over each other like they couldn’t get enough. Remiel tipped them both backwards so Aziraphale was spread out underneath her. He clutched her flush against him, one hand pressing on the small of her back and the other tangling in red hair. Remiel shifted against him, unconsciously rolling her hips over his and making them both groan.

“Oh! Oh, that’s… different,” Aziraphale said.

“Different good?”

 _“Yes.”_ Aziraphale clutched her tighter against him, as if worried she would leave.

Remiel’s face had never felt hotter. She tucked under Aziraphale’s chin and hid, and both of them just breathed for a few moments, before Remiel’s hips rolled again as if of their own volition. They moved on each other with new urgency, Aziraphale’s hands running all over Remiel’s body, exploring her the way she had him.

The space between their legs produced a new kind of sensation, one that built and built and seemed to demand more, sending heat all across their skin and pooling in their stomachs. Aziraphale’s hand naturally gravitated down there. Remiel moaned, and reached down herself to guide his exploration.

“There! _There!_ Ooohh…” She arched her back, long hair falling loose over her shoulders, the ends swaying with her movements. Aziraphale watched, entranced.

Remiel very quickly figured out exactly how to work Aziraphale’s cock and rendered him an insensate mess underneath her—even more than he already had been. He felt positively blissful, euphoric. _This_ was what it meant to experience a divine ecstasy.

The physical universe disappeared around them and they were in the spiritual plane, their souls dancing around each other. They circled and teased in a false chase, but kept coming closer, the inevitably of falling into a whirlpool.

Their souls came together in the softest merging. A single quiet, reverent moment. They met and blended with supernatural ease.

The moment passed, and hunger roared in its wake. They sank into each other with a kind of desperate want for knowledge, consuming each other’s souls and trying to mix speed and tenderness. The desire to know the other completely, the breathless need to know every part of their soul, was slowed down only by the potential of accidentally causing pain, or going somewhere unwelcome.

They soon found that was not possible.

As their frantic exploration of each other slowed, the communication between souls became even easier. Every thought one of them had, the other heard. Every emotion one of them felt, the other felt as well, to the point where separating whose was who’s was nearly impossible. They relaxed into their shared mindspace, and learned to luxuriate, going back over parts of the other they had previously rushed through.

All memories, experiences, thoughts and doubts were freely opened. Every sensation and feeling was available; they spent so long in the melding of their souls that they eventually felt comfortable revealing everything, until there was nothing hidden, and then spending even longer comforting and soothing each other.

Sharing their souls changed from a flaring ecstasy to something much softer.

When they crashed back into reality, their bodies were breathless and overheated and sticky. Remiel was collapsed on top of Aziraphale as if she didn’t have a bone in her body. The sweat and mess disappeared obligingly. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Remiel, pressed a kiss to her head, and she in turn wrapped all of her limbs around him in a way that should not have been physically possible. Blankets magically lifted up and covered the both of them.

“Love you,” Remiel mumbled.

“And I love you, my dear.”

Aziraphale stayed awake the entire night.

* * *

The universe was mostly built at this point. There were still things to do, of course, but mostly along the lines of tying up loose ends. Most of the plans and designs and laws had already been written. Now it was more along the lines of physical construction needing done (the virtues’ job), putting things in motion (which only God could do), and igniting the remaining stars and other flaming space stuff (okay, that one was on Remiel).

But, basically, she had significantly more free time these days.

And yes, she did spend a fair amount of it doting on and spoiling Aziraphale, also having a ridiculous amount of sex with him (which they seem to be getting better at now that they understand how it works, aside from that time that Remiel thought biting Aziraphale’s dick would go over as well as biting his neck did), but she did do other things that didn’t involve Aziraphale too.

Currently she was going to go bother her siblings. Aziraphale was also with her, but in the bodyguard capacity, not because it was an Aziraphale-centric activity, like feeding him newly-invented delicacies or reading soppy poetry she had written, which no other angels could prove had ever happened.

“Yooooo!” Remiel called loudly into the biology labs. Aziraphale cringed beside her. “Raphael! Samael! Where are you guys?”

Something clattered in the next room over, and Remiel heard someone swear softly. She immediately followed the sound.

Raphael, Samael, and their two cherubim were tidying up spilled and fallen things around a metal worktable. The room was massive, bigger than all the others, containing thirty-two miniature environments, each of a different type, walled off with glass and carefully separate from the others. Further rolling glass boards and floating scrolls were scattered about at random. Some were fully covered in glowing light-ink, others only containing a few fragments of thoughts.

Raphael and Samael had also added a strange-looking layer to their robes.

“What are you _wearing?”_ Remiel asked.

“They’re lab coats,” Raphael sniffed. “They protect from exposure to any dangerous elements, with working in experimental contexts.”

“We got attacked by a raccoon,” Samael explained. “These have thicker fabric. Stiffer, covers the arms. That’s also why we invented goggles and gloves.”

“Fascinating,” Remiel said. She miracled up matching versions for herself and Aziraphale. “You wear armor around your own creations? I blow stuff up all day and even I don’t have to do that. What’s a raccoon?”

“A vicious bandit predator,” Raphael said, slamming things back into their appropriate places. “It’s just a fat cat that went rogue and has little thieving hands and a little thieving face mask.”

“Was it—an accident?” Remiel asked.

“Yes,” Raphael said, at the exact same moment Samael said, “No.”

There was a moment of fraught tension.

“So, Remiel, want a tour of the labs? We have so many new species in development right now. Most of them are in about Phase Three, where we test their actual survivability in their native environments, but some are already in Phase Four—instinct coding,” Samael said.

“Oh, I’d love that,” she said.

“I wanna keep working on sorting out the sunflower weight problem, you two go ahead,” Raphael said. She made a motion, and a slow-spinning diagram of a plant drew itself up over the table, made of ethereal light and nothing else. Enochian symbols jumped into place as labels, numbers, notes.

Aziraphale leaned close to speak just for Remiel’s benefit. “My dear, if you don’t mind, I have some reading I’d like to catch up on? I’ll be in the next room, and I’ll extend my awareness a bit, but I think you’ll be perfectly safe with your brother and his bodyguard.”

She chuckled. “Yes, ‘course, go enjoy yourself, angel.”

“Great!” Samael clapped his hands together, and his bodyguard—Lauviah, thin, tall, well-muscled and better armed—went to his side silently. Remiel beamed at them both and strode over.

“So. Tell me about the plants first.”

* * *

“And _this_ thing is the poison dart frog,” Samael said.

Remiel gasped and knelt as close to the enclosure as possible. “I love it.”

“It’s very tiny, as you can see, and has the crucial job of keeping the rainforest insect population under control. So we gave it a bunch of advantages so it wouldn’t be killed too soon. The parents are going to be super protective of the young, and the adults are highly toxic. They can sicken, paralyze, and _kill_ predators, even ones way bigger than them.”

“Oh, is that necessary?” Remiel asked. “Animals killing each other—does that have to happen?”

Samael shrugged. “Orders are orders. Me and Raph came up with a sustainability thing. There’s this whole life cycle where things are born, they die, and their energy goes either to other animals or back into the Earth for plants. Life creates death, death creates life, it’s all interconnected and why me and Raph are working together in the first place, yadda yadda yadda.” Samael rolled his eyes.

“So this little thing,” she said. “It’s just poisonous, and _after_ things eat it, they regret it?”

“No, see, we thought of that. This frog comes with a warning label. That’s why it’s so brightly colored. It’s aposematic; it’s got a bright neon sign saying, ‘attention predators, I am poisonous.’ Gave the same thing to a few other plants and animals. We haven’t coded the instinct into everyone’s DNA yet, but it’s definitely on the list.”

Remiel raised a hand and a circle of glass disintegrated before her. The little frog hesitated, but she managed to coax onto her hand with a few nudges and gentle cooing.

“It’s amazing,” she said. “To think that something so adorable could be so deadly.”

“I think a lot that God didn’t need to do this,” Samael blurted. “There doesn’t need to be a life cycle. Raphael and I thought that up to make it all easier, and it seems more excusable. There doesn’t need to be death at all. We could just as easily have made all the plants and animals immortal like we are, like the humans will be. But God said no. And She won’t tell me why.”

Remiel faltered.

“I’m the angel of death,” her brother continued. “I’m the one who will have to collect all these souls. We’re coming up with all of the rules and parameters, but… some of these lifespans are so short. Why? We have species of insects whose whole life cycle is to burrow into the eyes of children and make them blind. Because God—who is Love—told us to make that. Creation doesn’t need it. The world could so easily just not include that.”

Samael extended his hand gently, and the little poison dart frog jumped from Remiel’s hand to his.

“My job is to take souls out of the world,” Samael said. “Raphael gets to restore life and health. Raguel brings about peace and justice. Uriel will raise humanity to new heights. Why even create someone like me?”

He stroked along the colorful little frog’s back. He looked up at Remiel and gave a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry about all this. Didn’t mean to unload on you like that. It’s just… Can’t exactly say it to Raph, can I?”

Remiel laughed. “No, no, I don’t think that would go over well,” she said. “And I don’t mind. We’re flockmates, Samael, you can always talk to me.”

“It’s just a sucky lot in life, huh?” he said. He put his hand up to the hole in the enclosure, and held still while the frog hopped safely onto a leaf. The glass sealed up as if it had never been open. “I guess it helps me sympathize with the little poisonous suckers; maybe that’s why God did that.” He grinned, bittersweet and false. “You are Thunder, Remy, and I am Venom.”

* * *

“Remiel! Look, these are called ducklings!” Aziraphale said cheerily.

Remiel smiled so wide it nearly split her face. She barely restrained from running over, and stepped through the glass into the freshwater lake environment her bodyguard was in. Aziraphale had found an-only-mildly-grimy rock to sit on, but Remiel simply sat in in the mud and grass. It wasn’t like her robes were made of real physical material anyway.

Aziraphale had a number of fluffy squeaky baby things on him. They were loud, and they had odd-looking wings and legs, and the rest of their body parts were even more alien.

One made a tiny chirpy noise and Aziraphale stroked its head with one finger.

Remiel, understandably, melted on the spot.

“Ngharr,” she said.

“What was that, dear?”

“I love you!”

Her hair was on fire.

Aziraphale beamed (like sunshine, he looked like sunshine) and leaned down to give her a kiss. The duckling fluttered out of his hand and into her lap. A different duckling from his shoulder made indignant noises about the motion and resettled in a huff.

“I love you too, my darling,” Aziraphale said.

Remiel could exist on this moment for eternity.

Aziraphale scooped up another duckling from where they were scattered on the ground around him and passed it to Remiel. “They’re very sweet things,” he said. “So affectionate.”

She leaned forward and gave Aziraphale one more quick kiss as she took the duckling. Just to tide her over.

Gabriel strode into the labs then, clipboard in hand and his bodyguard in trueform at his heels, holding five huge scrolls and using magic to bring even more stuff along with him. The seraph spotted them and changed his course to intercept.

“Remiel!” he said. “Have you seen Raphael and Samael? I have a _lot_ of paperwork issues to go over with them.”

“Ah, they’re around here somewhere,” she said evasively.

Aziraphale now had a number of ducklings climbing and chirping on him, on his lap, on his arms, in his hair. He manifested a pair of his wings (sans eyes), and the little things went wild.

Gabriel frowned. He indicated for Remiel to step aside a bit for privacy, and she complied, warily. “Isn’t that your bodyguard?”

“Uh, yeah?” Remiel said.

“Listen, I know I mentioned this earlier at the ball, and I hope you’ve had some time to consider it by now. We can get you a replacement. Plenty of other cherubim would kill for this assignment. More traditional, hardworking cherubim.”

“Azsssiraphale iss fine asss he isss.”

“But think about how it looks, Remy. It’s like you’re rewarding this sort of behavior, and it makes _you_ look weak too. Think about your safety here.”

“I’m perfectly sssafe,” she hissed, bristling and trying to make herself taller. She wasn’t going to manifest her trueform, that felt too much like showing her hand. But.

She brought her main wings out of the ethereal plane and gave them a few flaps on the pretense of stretching them, then settled them into a highly aggressive pose.

“Really? Because a cherub is meant to be a lion, but what you have is a domesticated house cat.”

Remiel _did_ manifest her trueform, and she surged forward, her flames reaching towards the ceiling and crackling as loud as thunder—

An arm yanked her backwards, and she stumbled before regaining her footing. She found herself under a solid wall of white-feathered wing, beside another massive wall of overly warm white fur.

Aziraphale was mantling over her, wings in a protective, possessive stance. And because he was bigger than most barns, actually, that was possible, even with Remiel manifested to her full length and height in her winged, serpentine form.

If she had to guess, she’d bet his upper wings were busking too— the attack stance Remiel herself had used earlier.

“Is there a problem here?” Aziraphale asked. For such a massive creature, he managed to be impossibly still, impossibly silent. The bull’s head did not snort, the lion did not growl. Even breaths from a being so enormous would be loud, but there were none. The fire contained within his flesh was unseen and unheard, but Remiel could _feel_ that it was there.

Gabriel raised his chin up and met a few of Aziraphale’s eyes. “No problem at all,” he said. “Cherub.”

* * *

“I love you,” Aziraphale said.

“I love you,” Remiel answered happily. He twisted in the tub, pushing up to reach Aziraphale’s lips with his own.

Aziraphale indulged in the kiss for long minutes, abandoning his task of washing Remiel’s hair, before pulling back with a sigh.

“No, you don’t understand. I love you so much. It consumes me, I’m full up of love, like it will just start pouring out of me at any moment. My magic has started to show it, too. There’s sunlight everywhere I go. Those flowers you love so much have started growing in the wake of my footsteps. Their scent is always in the air around me. I love you so much. Just saying it doesn’t cover it at all. I—I love you too much for words.”

“I feel the same,” Remiel said. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Aziraphale. You make my life… beautiful. Full of color. You showed me a better way to be an angel. You make… everything better.”

He turned around in the tub so he could face Aziraphale while laying on top of him. Water sloshed lazily at the edges. They ended up kissing for long, languid minutes.

“I wish there was a way,” Aziraphale started, and Remiel groaned at the lack of kissing. Aziraphale giggled and gave him another quick peck. “I wish there was a way that other people could know. That I could declare all this before the entire Host, so they’d all know that you were as loved as you possibly could be. I don’t think most angels even know a different type of love like this is possible. I certainly didn’t.”

“The humans…” Remiel started. “They have something. Raphael is in charge of it. I forget what it’s called. Marriage! When they find a love that’s strong, and special, and romantic, they bind their souls together with something called marriage.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said. “I would love to get married to you.”

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll talk to Raphael about it as soon as I can.”

A hand ran up the length of his back and into his hair, Aziraphale’s fingers weaving into a sure grip. He pulled a bit slowly, his other hand coming to rest on Remiel’s backside and hold him in place, making him arch against Aziraphale with the motion. “Oh I think it can wait just a little while longer, don’t you, dear?”

“Always,” Remiel gasped.

“Excellent.” Aziraphale smiled, all mischief and deviousness.

* * *

Once they finally talked Raphael into it, they decided to have the ceremony as soon as possible.

As no one had ever had a wedding yet and foreknowledge of human traditions was fuzzy at best, no one had any clue what it was supposed to be like. The entire Host was required to attend, though, that was important. It was hosted in the ballroom, with a recommendation to dress up. Remiel made sure someone brought those new fruits Aziraphale liked to eat. That was about it.

Raphael stood up on the platform and cleared her throat. The platform had a broad and permanent volume miracle on it, and so everyone quieted down quickly.

“Hello all. I am the Seraph Raphael. You have all been brought here today because Seraph Remiel and Cherub Aziraphale want to get married, and they want everyone to know it. Uh, you two, come up here.”

They fluttered up to the stage arm-in-arm, giggling and beaming. Raphael raised an eyebrow and drew in a breath.

“Anyway,” she said. “Marriage, as an institution, is meant to be the intertwining of two souls, two minds, two hearts. It is a promise, a most solemn vow. A vow not only to each other, but also to God. You are promising to love and to honor and to trust each other. To protect and care for one another, come what may. In God’s eyes, there are only two causes for this vow to be broken: permanent death, or infidelity. Forsaking it for any other reason is a rejection of God’s wisdom and guidance. It would be to break apart what She has yoked together. This could never be.

“Remiel, Aziraphale, should you make this vow, you would be promising God Herself to honor it, always, to the best of your abilities. All of Heaven shall hold you accountable. Take a moment to consider whether this is what you truly want.”

Heaven had a moment of silence.

“Seraph Remiel. Do you solemnly swear to love and to cherish Cherub Aziraphale, for as long as you both shall live?” Raphael asked.

“I do,” he said.

“Cherub Aziraphale. Do you solemnly swear to love and to cherish and to deeply respect Seraph Remiel, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. I now pronounce you married.”

They fell into each other in a hug, clutching tight like they never wanted to let go. The Host gave a round of appropriate, polite applause.

Aziraphale pulled his head back just for the sake of giving Remiel a kiss. It was once they broke apart that they finally noticed the halos. Rings of pure white-gold light levitated above each of their heads, marking them as wedded—the rings ethereal, indestructible parts of their very souls.

* * *

Remiel set down his quill, deciding he wasn’t going to get any more work done today. “Do you remember our wedding vows?”

“It was less than a week ago, Remiel, I should certainly hope so.”

“It’s just— Raphael had you swear to love and to cherish and to deeply respect. But I only had to swear to love and to cherish. Why the difference?”

Aziraphale got up from the settee and came around to Remiel’s desk. He took one of his husband’s hands and kissed it, then sat on the desk and gestured for Remiel to manifest his wings. Remiel sighed, shrugged six wings into existence, and scooted his chair closer to be groomed.

“I think it had to do with rank,” Aziraphale said, starting in on the two small wings that frame Remiel’s face. They were designed to allow him to hide his face from God, but Remiel mainly used them when embarrassed or complimented too thoroughly.

“That’s rubbish. Why should respect be a one-way street just because I outrank you?”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be, dear, it’s not like it’s illegal.”

“But it’s not in the vows. It should have been in the vows.”

“You can still vow it now.”

“Yugh—That’s right. That’s right! Aziraphale, I love you, and I’ll always respect you.”

He chuckled lightly. “I never doubted. It’s time to groom your main set. Uhh… You know what might be easier? If you were spread out on the desk for me. Here.”

He hopped down from his perch and guided Remiel out of his chair. Remiel allowed himself to be directed so that his hips hit the edge of the desk. A gentle hand on his neck pressed him flat over the surface. Remiel’s breath sped up.

And then Aziraphale preened his wings, like they both had done for each other a dozen times by now. The sensation was soothing, cleansing—like having knots gently worked out of hair and then brushed until it shone. It was a bit more tactile than that, actually. While it was common for most angels to groom each other very lightly, Aziraphale had broken that custom with Remiel early on, making a point to press his fingers in deep to the flesh underneath the feathers.

They had talked about it, and now Remiel made sure to always preen Aziraphale in that way, with that amount of pressure, but Aziraphale had lightened up a tad when preening Remiel.

Aziraphale preened each wing thoroughly, making sure they were immaculate, all feathers straightened, free of dust, and well-oiled. Almost no loose feathers were brushed out—Remiel’s wings were groomed far too often for that.

Once he was done, Aziraphale stood directly behind Remiel again and ran his hands along the upper edge of both wings. Remiel was practically melted into the desk with relaxation at this point (he had nearly fallen asleep with his head in his arms), but his breath hitched delightfully as Aziraphale pressed against the length of his back—so as to better extend the reach of his arms, of course. He stayed right where he was and brought his hands back to beginning of Remiel’s wings, repeating the motion in long, slow strokes.

Aziraphale kissed and nuzzled at his husband’s neck. “How are you feeling, Remiel?”

Remiel drew in a ragged breath. “Good,” he said. _“Very_ good.”

“Have you any thoughts on what you want to do with the rest of the day?”

He laughed. “I think you very well know what I want to do.”

“Say it.”

Remiel twisted his head around just enough to look at Aziraphale with sharp, golden eyes, dark in intensity. _“Fuck me.”_

“With pleasure, darling.” Aziraphale stopped his stroking motion, leaving his hands resting against the outermost joints of Remiel’s wings and applying the slightest bit of pressure. He returned his attentions to Remiel’s neck, sucking what would turn into quite a spectacular bruise. Aziraphale settled his weight more firmly against Remiel’s back, and aligned their hips just so to completely trap Remiel against the edge of his desk and make sure he could feel exactly what was waiting for him.

“Azziraphaaaale,” he whined, attempting to buck backwards. But given how thoroughly Aziraphale had him secured, all that resulted was a bit of squirming. “C’mon, touch me.”

“Alright. Do leave your wings exactly where I’ve placed them; I’d like to continue admiring them.” He nipped lightly just below Remiel’s ear. “And spread your legs.”

Remiel complied immediately, and Aziraphale cooed praises at him. He pulled back to better see his husband, leaving one hand on the center of his back, rising and falling with his breaths. All six of Remiel’s black wings were out. The pairs on his head and his feet were beating gently in time with his breathing, but his main flight set held still and lax.

“You look stunning, my dear. Mind if I get rid of our clothes now?”

“Mhmph.”

“I need a word, darling.”

“…Yeah.”

Aziraphale considered how pedantic he wanted to be today, and then decided to accept that. Both of their robes vanished with a thought.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale said, stroking his hands down over all of Remiel that he could reach. “You’re so lovely for me, aren’t you, darling? Dearest. My love.” Remiel made a series of strangled sounds, face wings pressing close. Aziraphale laid a kiss at the top of his spine.

“My most beautiful, brilliant seraph.” Another kiss, down on the next notch of Remiel’s spine.

“You have the sharpest wit in Heaven, you know.” He kissed the next vertebrae down.

“And I’m not simply saying that, I truly mean it.” Another kiss, a little lower. Remiel tried burying his face further into arms.

“Your soul is so dazzling to behold, my darling.”

Another kiss, another vertebrae.

“You put the stars to shame.”

And so Aziraphale continued, giving a compliment and a kiss all the way down Remiel’s spine, petting and teasing him all over the whole time, until he was perfectly flushed and desperate. Aziraphale knelt behind him, parting his cheeks. He pressed a kiss right to the cleft of Remiel’s ass.

“I love you,” he said. And then he _licked,_ and Remiel howled.

Aziraphale ate him out for what felt like hours, until Remiel was a mess of sensation and his legs felt like jelly. When Aziraphale had finally his fill of that, he secured a good grip and took Remiel over his own desk.

Remiel was vaguely aware of being miracled back into his quarters, of being given water, and a cool cloth running over heated skin. He slowly came out of his stupor even as he stayed exhausted. Aziraphale was fluttering about and Remiel made a point to all but tackle him into the bed and force him to lay down and relax too.

“If you’re going to be such a hedonist, I insist you at least indulge yourself too.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I just did, dear boy,” he said. “And I am not a hedonist, I am an _angel.”_

“Oh trust me, you can be both,” he said. “Don’t know how I got so lucky. There can’t be anyone else like you.”

“Mmm, it’s me who’s lucky.”

Remiel privately disagreed, and vowed to create some sort of romantic gesture to let Aziraphale know how appreciated he was. Something that would bring him joy, something personal. He couldn’t let his husband go around not knowing how incredible and beloved he was.

It was _Remiel_ who was the lucky one, and he was going to prove that.

* * *

“Right!” Remiel said. “So I’ll be here in biology, and you can go train with your siblings.”

“That’s… That’s quite a bit farther apart than we normally are, isn’t it? I won’t be able to perceive anything going on from that distance.”

“I’ll be fine. You know that more people have been coming down here lately. It’s not like I’ll be alone. Samael’ll be there, and Lauviah—who is a cherub herself, by the way—and a whole bunch of other cherubim and second-sphere angels. A throne showed up one time.”

“But _I’m_ supposed to—”

“Aziraphale,” she put her hands on his shoulders. “I’ll be fine. I know you don’t like these meetings, and I don’t want to keep you from seeing your family, or getting enough practice in. You deserve to have time to yourself, pursue your own interests. I’ll be perfectly fine. I promise.”

Aziraphale hesitated. He had attended precisely one of Samael’s informal “meetings” before, and been uncomfortable the entire time. Frankly, most of those questions were things he preferred not to think about. They were good, valid questions, he supposed, but—unpleasant. He mostly passed the time out in the main area of the labs; he’d find a pleasant biome and curl up with a scroll.

And reading was all well and good, he enjoyed it, but there were other things that he also enjoyed. Things were different when Remiel went to Aziraphale’s sparring practice. Aziraphale’s siblings had been stiff and formal, their easy relaxation and chatter gone. Sparring had been given the intensity of a performance review, and Rikbiel had started a passive-aggressive conversation about professional goals afterwards that Remiel had had no clue how to respond to.

Remiel had tried to keep everything casual and friendly. It hadn’t had any effect. Even attempts at joking around had been met with careful, polite answers.

Somehow, actually, that had gone _better_ than when Remiel went with him to train his powers. Well, not ‘train’ precisely. Powers were one of the warrior choirs, they already knew everything they needed to. But Heaven’s modified military hierarchy put cherubim as the commanding officers of the powers, so Aziraphale had a corps and he did need to check in with his major generals and devote a bit of time towards management and ensuring all under his command were up to standard and battle-ready.

Spot inspections of a few random Powers’ divisions by their Lieutenant General Cherub and a seraph in tow had apparently been nerve-wracking for several hundred angels. The fear had tasted putrid and disgusting in the air. Aziraphale had done a lot of concerned frowning, but in hindsight, that might have made things worse.

“I swore to protect you,” he said.

“And you are—by leaving me in the safest hands possible. We can be apart sometimes, angel, it’s not the end of the world.”

His lip twitched into a hint of a smile. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Don’t worry. I promise you’re the only bodyguard for me,” Remiel said. _“Lauviah.”_

Aziraphale swatted her on the arm, badly suppressing a grin. “You’re incorrigible. I’m leaving immediately and never returning.”

“Good riddance.” Remiel quirked a smile and leaned forward to steal a goodbye kiss.

* * *

“I want to show you something,” Remiel said, leading Aziraphale by the hands. They were in one of the contained biomes in the biology lab—a vast open meadow with endless blue skies and mostly shorter grass and weeds. Remiel led her husband out into the center of it, until they were surrounded on all sides by the life of it.

“Yes?” Aziraphale smiled.

“The flowers,” she said. “The yellow ones. They’re—I ma—They’re for you.”

Aziraphale’s face broke into sunshine. “Oh! Oh, Remiel, they’re delightful. Absolutely darling. You did all this?”

“No, it was mostly Raphael. Couldn’t do anything like this on my own. They’re, uh, they’re called dandelions. They’re edible. I thought—Well, you know, you like eating, you like flowers, I’d come up with a flower you could eat.” She shrugged.

“Oh, that’s so thoughtful of you! Have you had one yet?” Aziraphale asked, crouching to pick a handful. They were the predominant flower of the field, it was as yellow as it was green.

“No, I wanted you to have first honors.”

“We’ll do it together,” he said decisively. He gave her a flower and selected another from his bundle for himself. They both took a bite.

“…They’re supposed to be better unbloomed,” Remiel said.

“My dear, they’re lovely.” Aziraphale kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Well, I, umm, had a lot of help from Raphael. It was mostly her, actually, I’m no good with delicate living things like this. My department is really more, y’know, BOOFF! The giant sky explosions. Now if there was a romantic way to make bombs, I’d be there, but there isn’t, so, uhh…” Remiel looked down, face wings mostly concealing her.

“I love it,” Aziraphale said, taking one of her hands.

The face wings moved away. “Seriously?” she asked. “Because it really was mostly Raphael. I can’t create flowers. Basically she gave me an outline and I filled the details in, I truly did phenomenally little—”

“But you did it for me,” he said. “As an expression of your love. And that means the world to me.”

Her face reddened, and Aziraphale quickly moved for a kiss before she could hide behind her wings again. Remiel softened, melting into it.

They stood there for hours, holding each other and kissing among the dandelions.

* * *

Heaven was having another ball, though technically this one was a gala.

The seraphim had had a council a while back and decided that regular balls were a beneficial form of pan-angel association, encouraging unity and brotherhood among the Host. They were now held once a month on Tuesday evenings, in addition to midweek worship on Thursday evenings and weekend worship on Sunday mornings, as well as a mandatory Flock Worship Night on a night of each flock’s choosing (seraphim had theirs on Mondays, Aziraphale’s flock of cherubim had theirs on Saturdays).

This gala had accompanying, non-miracled music. The thrones were playing, a grand orchestra of mostly non-human instruments. They sat on solid gold thrones ornate with carvings and gems and pearls, floating several feet off the ground and buoyed by ephemeral clouds of mist underneath. The thrones (as in the rank of angels) all had the proud gray or white hair of wisdom, they were fully covered in wrinkles God had given them.

And the seraphim were singing.

All seven of them were in their draconic trueforms, flying up above the throne’s orchestra in a constantly moving accompaniment. Seraphim were the only ones capable of approaching the Throne of God, and while that was useful for many duties, on the very first day of existence, all they had done was swoop around Her on six wings each and sing out _“holy, holy, holy!”_

Hymns had been much improved since then.

The idea of soaring singing seraphim had remained. The seven of them flew in one long line, a big ribbon, flying through the cavernous ballroom. Uriel took the lead in this, both the flight and the song.

The performance went on for a full hour before drawing to a close. The thrones vanished their instruments back to wherever they came from; the seraphim landed and dispersed.

Remiel shifted into humanoid form while walking over to Aziraphale, beaming and chest heaving. “What’d you think?”

“Oh, it was simply amazing, dear girl, a superb performance! I’d never seen anything like it! You all sounded so—so… Oh, it was just amazing.” Aziraphale gave a happy little wiggle. “There aren’t sufficient words, I’m afraid.”

Remiel gave a mock gasp. “You? Of all angels, to not know the right word for something? A scandal.”

“You’ve surpassed language, my dear,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Dance with me?”

She pretended to consider it. “Hmm, I don’t know, I mean, I feel like I could hold out for a better offer…”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and Remiel cracked and started laughing.

“’A better offer’,” Aziraphale said, even as they held onto each other to dance. “See that I don’t leave you to it, next time.”

“Oh, you’d never,” Remiel said. “You love me too much.”

He melted. “I’m afraid so.”

Remiel had to duck her head into his shoulder, but that didn’t mean anything.

* * *

Aziraphale lifted Remiel up and slammed her into the wall as soon as they were past the door, just slow enough to ensure she wouldn’t be hurt. Her legs wrapped around his waist unconsciously, silky white robes sliding down to pool at her hips. Aziraphale adjusted her weight until he could support her with just one arm.

His free hand caressed the side of her face, trailed down her throat, came to rest just above her collar. Remiel stared at him with a level of focus usually reserved for nuclear physics.

“Seems you’ve caught me,” she said. “Now what are you going to do with me?”

 _“Do_ with you?” Aziraphale asked, stroking his hand down the length of her torso. Remiel’s breath faltered. “Nothing _,_ my dear, certainly nothing untoward. I heard that stupendous performance you gave in there and simply _had_ to meet the virtuoso.”

“Big fan, are we?”

“Hmm. I do have a great appreciation for the musical arts.” He rested his hand on her chest, watching it rise and fall with her breathing. “It seemed to be such a strenuous performance, flying in such a fast dance like that while singing too. Such focus. I was quite impressed you were able to maintain it.”

Remiel shrugged, as much as she was able. “Wasn’t all that. Could do it pretty easily.”

“Really?” her husband asked. “I don’t suppose you could give an encore?”

She huffed a laugh. “What?”

“Since it was so easy to sing through all that, dear, and I was ever so enthralled by it, I would love to hear a repeat performance.”

“Alright.” She shifted upward for a better position, and Aziraphale pressed even closer until there was barely any space between him and her and the wall, but—admittedly—she was more upright. The hand not supporting her slunk down her torso slipped under her robes, fingers teasingly light between her legs.

Remiel breathed in sharply.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t let me distract you.”

Her brow set in determination, and Remiel began to sing the hymn.

* * *

Samael’s… group, had been discussing the pain problem for three weeks.

Remiel was properly lit up about and had very fierce opinions, but Aziraphale had asked him not to bring Samael’s debates to him, and so Remiel had kept silent.

It was hard, to not be able to share it with his husband. He kept getting worked up over the issues at random, pacing suddenly, mouth clenched and glaring. During those times, he would excuse himself and go find someone who was comfortable discussing those difficult things. He was very close friends with Lucifer now, and to a lesser extent, the others in Samael’s group.

It was the pain problem above all else that he couldn’t forget about.

“There’s a biological reason that pain exists,” Raphael said. She came to these meetings now too, sometimes. “Living things actually do need it.”

“To an extent,” Samael said.

“To an extent,” she agreed. “But pain is a warning. It tells creatures to stop before they damage themselves further. It tells them to get away from danger. Pain says ‘stop, take a break, leave.’ It forces the living things to be gentle with themselves, and with each other.”

“What about chronic pain?” Remiel asked.

“Pain is capable of killing if it’s intense enough. _That_ is not a warning,” Azazel said.

“There’s a form of pain that can be felt in the soul,” Samael said quietly. “A response to suffering.”

“You mean empathy?” Raphael asked wryly.

“No, this is different. It’s a spiritual pain. It happens when the living things are mistreated or misused. Or sometimes just as a matter of life. There’s so many bugs and glitches in most of these creatures’ genetic codes. They just malfunction sometimes. They go wrong. Horrible things happen.”

“I’m sure God won’t release the creatures for distribution until that’s obsolete,” someone piped up. A lab tech, one of the department’s eager-eyed scientists. “We’ll get rid of the cancer glitch well before any humans ever exist.”

“Suffering is inevitable,” Samael said. “God will allow it. God will sit back in Her throne and watch and not do anything. Many of these creatures will live lives of absolute misery right up until I’m forced to rip out their fucking soul.”

“Won’t that just make them more appreciative of Heaven once they get here?” Beleth asked.

“That’s perverse,” Samael said. “If that’s the goal, then God is a monster.”

* * *

“Wait. Should we get the other archangels?” Raphael asked.

Remiel snorted. “As if they’d understand. You think Gabriel gives a shit about anyone other than himself?”

“Remy’s right. We’re doing this. Without them,” Samael said. There was a good seventy angels here, now, in a biology lab where very little work was done now. Dead silent and deadly serious, all on their feet.

This was not the extent of Samael’s movement. Not by a long shot. The debate over God’s morality had consumed most of Heaven by now. And a good portion no longer believed that God innately deserved Her authority.

Samael moved, and everyone followed.

The crowd grew in size as they went, a solemn procession that drew attention from everyone they passed. Heaven fell silent, angels sensing something was wrong when they saw their fellows.

The three seraphim led the way until Samael knocked on the door to God’s throne room.

“My Lord,” he called out. “We have questions and we seek an audience with You.”

The moment was crystalline, fraught with tension.

The door swung open.

* * *

“—why would You do that? _Why would You do that?!”_ Remiel practically shouted, finishing off the tirade. His words rung throughout the throne room. The doors were open so that everyone could hear, even if no other choirs could enter without their souls disintegrating.

Remiel’s heart was beating too fast even for an angel. He had started crying at some point, but he refused to wipe tears in front of God.

I AM THE LORD YOUR GOD. I HAVE PROVIDED FOR YOU EVERY GOOD THING. I WILL NOT LISTEN TO YOUR BLASPHEMY.

They were no longer in the throne room. The doors swung shut with a gust of air and a boom. Samael lunged back towards them to try to pry them open by force, and that was when the guards moved.

* * *

Gabriel managed to beam a message directly into the entire Host’s brains to ready themselves for battle and report to their commanding officer immediately. He named all of Samael’s associates and followers as dangerous, violent traitors, now turning on their own kind.

Aziraphale assumed his true form and miracled on adamantine armor. His sword ignited as soon as he pulled it out of the ether.

Technically, with this being a combat situation, he should report to Michael.

He went to go find Remiel instead.

Aziraphale had sworn to God that he would protect him, and nothing was going to stop him.

* * *

Remiel was running.

There are many ways that people describe snakes. Cautious, for one. Shrewd and crafty. Wily.

Cowardly.

When the fighting broke out, Remiel ran and hid. He got as far away as he could. Every time violence and shouting found him, he left again. Eventually he left Heaven entirely, flying out into pitch black space on pitch black wings. As if it was camouflage. As if he had been designed to hide this way.

He knew he could have stayed, performed healing miracles, acted as a leader and tried to arrange peace. He was a fucking seraph, for crying out loud. He the Hope of Heaven. What else was he for? Just zapping stars into ignition like an overgrown battery?

He also knew Aziraphale would be looking for him, and that he would fight anyone who tried to harm him—and people who would want to harm him were currently backed by God. If Aziraphale found him, he would fight on his side, despite his personal beliefs, and whatever horrible fate was in store for Remiel, Aziraphale would suffer it too.

There was a chance that Remiel could help stop the fighting. Could heal people. Could save lives.

Instead, he chose to act like a coward and hide, out of the selfish desire to save one particular angel more than any thousands of others.

Remiel was selfish. Whatever was going to happen to him, Aziraphale didn’t deserve that.

* * *

There were seven seraphim. Each one was created by God to fill a specific, essential role in Heaven.

Michael. The General.

Samael. Death.

Gabriel. The Messenger.

Raphael. The Healer.

Uriel. Light.

Remiel. Hope.

And Raguel. The Judge.

The Supreme Justice of Creation, to be precise.

And being the perfect embodied form of Justice, with domain over the entire universe, Raguel had factually unlimited power to act as judge, jury, and executioner. Over Heaven and over Hell, and over all of the creatures found within. He could determine what standards were enforced, what punishments and reparations were doled out, and what form justice took, for everyone.

Humans will later say that justice is blind. They will mean it as a metaphor for impartiality. But in reality, Raguel saw _everything._

He looked out at every level of Heaven, at every room and hidden corner inside it. He looked into the hearts and minds of the angels. He saw both sides fighting, brother against brother, over the alleged unrighteousness of God.

And he saw that it was bad.

Dozens of angels had already faced permanent extinction. The fighting would go on until Heaven was stained permanently gold with angel blood and there was hardly anyone left. The death toll would be unimaginable. The bitterness would keep the fighting going until one side or the other was completely extinguished.

Raguel swept out a hand, and separated the two sides.

The angels who rejected God plummeted out of Heaven.

* * *

Aziraphale got dragged into the battle, of course. It had been inevitable. Big hulking cherub in gleaming armor and with a flaming sword, he’d been attacked as soon as he stepped out of their private chambers.

All told, the fighting only lasted a few hours. Then half the combatants disappeared and Heaven tried pitifully to get itself together.

Everything was in chaos. No one knew where anyone was. The healers were stretched thin and with long lines waiting. Everyone had loved ones they wanted to search the healing rooms for, no one had been accounted for, a lot of effort was being wasted in keeping worried angels out of the infirmary and repeating that a head count hadn’t been completed yet.

Aziraphale received treatment for a stab wound to his knee that had very nearly taken away his ability to walk. It was his celestial essence that was injured. Should be fine when in a corporation. Would hurt like hell without one, though, likely for eternity.

He asked permission to take his bedrest in his private chambers rather than the infirmary, and it was gladly granted.

The bed smelled like Remiel. It was cold. Silent. He couldn’t manage to close his eyes.

It was a day and a half before anyone came looking for him. He was summoned to Gabriel’s office.

The seraph looked worn and devoid of any emotion beyond tiredness. New lines were drawn across his face as if he had actually managed to age. If Aziraphale had to guess, God’s Messenger had been very busy lately, and Aziraphale was far from the first or the last angel he would deliver news to.

“So,” he said. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing. I’ve been in my room,” he said quietly. “Since the battle.”

Gabriel nodded. “I understand you were wounded.”

“My leg. Permanent damage to the celestial form.”

“I’ll do what I can to get you in a corporation,” he said. “I have some news for you.”

Aziraphale braced himself.

“The Seraph Remiel has Fallen and is now a demon. The Cherubim Haziel and Ophaniel died in battle. The Cherub Rikbiel has Fallen and is now a demon.” Gabriel pulled a paper out of a folder and slid it across the desk. “7,142 of your soldiers died in battle. 162,571 of them Fell.”

Aziraphale stared at the paper. He recognized some of the names. Most of them he didn’t. The nature of a corps, he supposed.

Gabriel continued. “Haziel and Ophaniel are going to be awarded posthumous medals in a memorial ceremony a week from now, along with the other loyal angels we lost. You will also be awarded medals, for fortitude in battle and for sustaining a war wound.”

Aziraphale dimly thought that was a bit absurd. He said nothing.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “You’re in an unusual position. You are the only cherub—the only _angel—_ who lost their entire flock in the battle, not to mention the loss of your spouse. With Remiel Falling, that also eliminates the post you were previously assigned to. Heaven is undergoing significant restructuring at the moment. We lost a lot of essential people. Now, you’re a war hero who’s undergone unimaginable loss. Heaven is prepared to accommodate that in whatever way works best for you. You can have your pick of assignments.”

He didn’t want an assignment, he wanted his family back.

He was silent for a long time.

“Aziraphale? I need you to pick something, okay buddy? Anything you want. Something easy, something challenging.”

He paused, maybe hoping Aziraphale would reply.

“I’ve got a list here. So you can look over the options.”

He pulled out another paper and put it on top of the first. Aziraphale had even less interest in this one.

“Some stuff in there is pretty cushy and pretty high-glory.”

The words failed to register. Aziraphale looked at the writing on the page, and saw only meaningless symbols.

Gabriel sighed. “Look. I’m trying to help you out here. The fact of the matter is that you didn’t report in and broke procedure during the battle; you just went off on your own and didn’t direct your corps at all. You had powers who needed orders and were left to fend for themselves. A lot of angels were shocked to find you still in Heaven after everything. Thought your demon spouse had corrupted you at first. Now, you have a really sad sob story and you’re getting a medal instead of a punishment, but you have to work with me here. Put in an effort. Everyone else is.”

Aziraphale dragged his eyes up. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

There was too much and there was nothing, everything felt impossible.

Gabriel shook his head. “Fine. Whatever. You can have the Eden assignment. We needed a new cherub for that anyway, and it’ll get you out of Heaven. You can wear a corporation and maybe get your head on straight. Or at least no one else will see you acting like this.”

He signed something, stamped a form, and that was that.

“Send Hakamiah in on your way out.”

* * *

Less than one month. Less than one week actually on guard duty.

But Aziraphale had been created for the specific purpose of protecting others, and he was a bit… high-strung, right now. Perhaps a bit on edge. He had kept a keen eye on the humans, a very keen eye. Don’t know how any demon snuck past him. He knows for an absolute fact that none flew over the walls or snuck in the gate. He hadn’t seen a single human-shaped being in the Garden aside from the two whom he was guarding.

It was possible a demon had impersonated one of them… No, no it wasn’t. Again, it was impossible for one to have snuck past him in the first place. He had guarded that gate with single-minded intensity. There was not one second where it went unobserved. Or where the humans were unobserved. Aziraphale had many eyes and a mind that could stretch through space, he was capable of watching many things at once.

But he had failed anyway.

Again.

And it had been God personally who deemed the humans corrupted and banished them from the Garden, not Raguel. Aziraphale’s failure had been of the highest order. All of humanity was… doomed, now. Cursed to death and suffering and endless toil and subjugation.

Gabriel had been right, hadn’t he? He truly was an improper mistake of a cherub. He failed to protect his spouse, his siblings, his soldiers, and now his new wards, even with it having been the easiest assignment imaginable.

He had failed to protect every single charge he had ever been given. That was all he ever did, was fail.

And now he stood on top of the wall and watched the humans walk off into the unforgiving desert, where there was no food, no water, no shelter, but plenty of new dangers that they had never encountered before and were completely unprepared to deal with.

The Tree of Life was _right there_ in the Garden, capable of granting them their immortality back, but Aziraphale had to guard it from them and ensure they never entered the Garden ever again.

It seemed… perverse. The opposite of what he thought his purpose was. And yet those were his orders. Straight from God Herself.

Aziraphale didn’t flinch when the demon came up beside him. He had seen it coming, of course.

He was surprised when the snake form melted away into something achingly familiar.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” his—his—the demon said.

Aziraphale couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t look away, either. He laughed nervously, delighted and heartbroken. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, ‘well that went down like a lead balloon.’”

“Yes, _yes,_ it did, rather.”

“Bit of an overreaction if you ask me.”

Aziraphale slid his eyes back to R—to _the demon_ in dawning horror. Were they trying to tempt him? After everything they had been through? They disappear during a civil war to do who knows what and come back spouting blasphemy? Trying to, to drag Aziraphale down with them? Was this seriously what they had come to?

They had been the _Serpent of Eden._ The realization put a pit of sickened dread in Aziraphale’s stomach. It was like he didn’t know them at all.

Perhaps he never had.

“First offense and everything.” His former spouse’s beautiful golden eyes had turned putrid sulfur yellow, and were slitted even in human form. The disgusting stench of sulfur clung to them, smelling like rotting eggs. The marks of their lightning were gone. “I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.”

And now, for the first time ever, they were drawing Aziraphale into blasphemous debate.

He would not be so easily swayed.

“Well, it must be bad…”

“Crawly.”

His guts twisted, nausea rising. “—Crawly,” he said. “Otherwise—you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

“Oh, they just said ‘Get up there and make some trouble.’”

“Well, obviously. You’re a demon. It’s what you do.”

And Aziraphale would _not_ forget that. Ever. Come what may.

No matter what points Crawly raised or how easy it was to talk to them or how this was the first time since the Battle that Aziraphale had felt anything other than anxious dread, grief, or self-hatred.

No matter the fact that he could still feel Crawly’s emotions at this distance, given the binding of their souls, no matter how he could feel the love and joy and _hope_ pouring off them when Aziraphale said he gave away his sword.

No matter how Crawly made him smile and laugh again.

But when rain started to fall, Crawly moved closer to him automatically, and Aziraphale didn’t think at all before lifting up a wing to shelter them.

And, well, was that really so bad? All of the mandates God had given them were still in place, weren’t they? They were still married, in God’s eyes. As long as Aziraphale still wore a halo, he still had a duty to his spouse, and Crawly may have forsook their vows to God, but not their vows to Aziraphale. He would not turn his back on them over this. The very first act of his life had been to swear a solemn oath to God to serve Her, and keep Crawly safe.

He saw no reason to consider those commands contradictory. He had been created to protect and guard, and so he would.


End file.
